


A White Christmas

by Contesa_lui_Alucard



Category: Paterson (2016)
Genre: F/M, Mentions of Sex, Self-Esteem Issues
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-25
Updated: 2020-12-25
Packaged: 2021-03-10 16:29:08
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,217
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28320174
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Contesa_lui_Alucard/pseuds/Contesa_lui_Alucard
Summary: You and Paterson have a quiet Christmas Eve together.
Relationships: Paterson (Paterson)/Reader, Paterson (Paterson)/You
Comments: 3
Kudos: 7





	A White Christmas

**Author's Note:**

> Hello all! This was written to fulfill a request I received. I hope you enjoy!

It was a silent night, so to speak, in Paterson, New Jersey. Whether or not that had something to do with the Pandemic, one couldn’t say, since normally you and Pat traveled for the holidays, but as it stood, all was calm, and all was bright. Big, fluffy flakes of snow had begun to quietly fall, setting the scene for a most picturesque evening, mirrored inside by the pleasant drift of music and the delectable aroma of a meal prepared with the heart. Two hearts, in fact, as Pat had insisted on helping you, having just recently taken an interest in the culinary arts.

He was a fast learner, which had impressed you, although it did not surprise you. Pat’s an incredibly astute guy, of course he’d pick things up quickly. Thick fingers had gripped vegetables with a delicacy they didn’t look capable of, while a powerful arm chopped a knife clean through them using barely any exertion. You’d watched him entranced as he worked, and when he noticed, the tips of his adorable jug-handle ears turned a very merry red as he smiled shyly at your attention. The two of you had made quick work of the preparations, even with the distractions Pat occasionally offered, he didn’t miss an opportunity to still run his hands over you whenever he could manage, although he of course made sure his hands were clean first. You two had agreed on getting a little dressed up just to make the evening that extra bit special, even though it was only the two of you, and Pat knew you would have been incredibly cross with him if he managed to get smeared finger prints on your brand new dress. You would have too, you really liked this dress, but then again, the punishment would be sublime. Perhaps Pat knew that, too.

The two of you were just pulling the food out of the oven and setting the table when Bing Crosby began to croon ‘White Christmas,’ the appropriateness of the song considering the weather this year not lost on either of you, as you exchanged knowing glances. Once everything was set and you sat together at the table, Pat raised his glass to you, “Here’s to a white Christmas with my best girl,” he said with a smile, before leaning in for a kiss, but not before murmuring, “may your days be merry and bright.”

Your lips meet his as your glasses clink, soft and pillowy plump, before you pull away with a smile of your own, “With you, Pat? They always are.”

He blushes, because even though you’ve been together for so long, he never seems to stop being surprised by just how much you love him. He reaches for your face, taking it gently in his large palm, and pulls you in for another kiss. His lips are warm, soft, earnest in their love when he brushes them against yours. You lean in to his kiss, setting your glass down to better hold his face in your hands. You carefully card your fingers through his gelled hair, trying not to muss up his efforts, settling on stroking the shell of his ear. He melts into your touch, your lips, letting the sensations of you overtake him, until you both break apart panting for air.

His honey eyes are half lidded, heavy with lust, and he bites his lip before he laughs, shy and embarrassed at how much he needs you, at how you still manage to turn him into a fumbling teenager, wanton and wanting. You both just sat down to a home cooked meal you spent hours preparing together and yet all he can think about now is getting you undressed and tasting your juicy peach of a pussy until your toes curl and his name falls as a chanting chorus from your desperate throat.

You read his mind, because of course you can, he doesn’t know it but every thought he has glows bright and clear in his golden eyes. You can see the desire that pools in them, the worship and the wanting, so with a gentle hand you cup his face in your palm. He nuzzles into your touch, eyes sliding shut for only a moment to take in your enticing scent, your soft skin, your welcoming warmth, before his eyes open once more to focus entirely on you, the center of his universe.

“Let’s eat, then we can move on to dessert,” you offer with a smirk, which Pat eats up with a harsh swallow and a quick nod. You want him, and that’s all that bounces around in his head as you begin to fill his plate. You want him, and after dinner he’s going to show you how much he appreciates it, appreciates you. You want him, you, you who is perfect and beautiful and smart and talented, you want him, and he loves you, more than anything on this earth, and he’s going to show you just how much that is. You want him, even though no one else has wanted him in such a long time, and he doesn’t blame them for it. You shouldn’t want him either. He’s just a man, not a particularly interesting man by any means, a bit odd looking, who drives a bus and scribbles his thoughts into a secret notebook. But you want him anyway, you make him feel handsome and interesting, you make him feel creative, when he shares his scribbles, you make him feel special, and he’ll spend the rest of eternity thanking you for it.

You smile at him, big and warm, as you set his plate down in front of him, and he lights up in response, “Thank you,” he rasps through an emotion-clogged throat, to which you nod and offer a ‘you’re welcome’ in response, but it isn’t the plate of food he’s thanking you for, not really, not just that. But he’ll show you later, after dinner, how grateful he is, when he worships you from head to toe, when he comes to pray at your altar. He’ll show you his gratitude tomorrow too, when he surprises you with breakfast in bed, eager to use his newly learned cooking skills on you. He’ll show his gratitude when he gives you the thoughtful gifts he picked out for you, the ones he spent hours wrapping carefully until they looked perfect before he placed them under the tree. He’ll show you his gratitude when you ask him to take out the garbage and he doesn’t fuss, when you ask him to reach for the mixing bowl on the high shelf that’s just out of your reach and he stops whatever he’s doing to do it, when your feet get cold and you put them on him and even though they feel like ice cubes he doesn’t push them away, he’ll never stop showing his gratitude.

You watch him as he eats, knowing the gears in his mind are turning, knowing your wonderful man’s beautiful mind is swimming thick with thoughts, so you place a hand over the one of his that’s closest to you, and squeeze until he meets your eyes, “Merry Christmas, Pat,” you smile, “I love you.”

“I love you too, honey,” he smiles in return, “Merry Christmas.”


End file.
